


pets?

by ozonecologne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Gen, Human Castiel, Implied Relationships, Pets, References to Depression, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 20:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: “Do you think Cas is lonely?” Dean springs on Sam, after Castiel has begged off to bed.Sam looks up with surprise. “Why do you ask?”Dean shrugs. “I dunno. Just a feeling. Should we get him a pet?”“A pet?” Sam asks. “Dean, Casjuststarted getting used to humanity. He can barely take care of himself. You want to give him something else to take care of, too?”He taps a finger and chews the inside of his lip. “Well, what about something for all of us?”





	pets?

**Author's Note:**

> a lovely anon prompted me on tumblr: "what if, during season 9 and when cas is a human, he's able to adopt a cat for the bunker bc dean is a softie even though he's allergic and cas happens to be allergic too and dean comforts him about it?? I love fics that are sweet and soft!! Anyway, have a nice day!!"  
> 
> 
> I maaaaay have gone a teensy bit overboard? heh.

The dog is first.

Castiel catches it sniffing around their trash cans one night after Dean’s shoved him in the direction of the door, bags gripped loosely in hand and grumbling to himself. _If you sleep here and you eat here, you help with the chores._

It’s bony and its fur is matted down by the rain, but it lopes right on up to him with its tongue wagging when he offers it the half-eaten take-out on the top of the garbage pile. Its limping gait and war-hardened eyes remind Castiel very much of himself, before the Winchesters kindly rescued _him_. Castiel looks uneasily back towards the door.

He sleeps here and eats here. He takes out the garbage. This is his home as much as it is Sam and Dean’s, he has been assured countless times since The Fall, so he is also allowed to say who comes and who goes.

“Alright. But just for tonight,” he tells it.

The dog twitches its big satellite ears and noses its way inside, padpadpadding its way through the garage and leaving big, wet paw prints in the cement. Castiel turns to dump the garbage bags outside and locks the back door behind him.

“Hey there, buddy,” Castiel hears Sam say, further down the hall. “Hi!”

Castiel catches up and sees Sam crouched down on his knees, feeling around the dog’s neck. The dog is uninterested in Sam, electing instead to bounce on its feet and sniff the air, craning his head around Sam’s big shoulder.

Sam looks up and beams. “Where’d this come from?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies. “I didn’t ask.”

Sam nods, _fair enough,_ and straightens. “Good luck getting this by Dean,” he snickers. He pats the dog on the head once and sighs, walking away with a little shake of his head. “Been angling for a pet for years.”

Castiel frowns. Dean has never shown any aversion to animals _before_.

He lets the dog explore for himself. Sam has practically given his blessing, and that means that he, Castiel, and the dog all outvote Dean. The canine stays.

Castiel doesn’t bother chaperoning it around; he can practically feel the buzz of excitement and nervousness radiating from the animal as it explores the wide tunneling network of the bunker.

“SON OF A BITCH, WHAT IN THE –!”

A gunshot goes off.

Castiel sprints for the kitchen.

The dog dashes past him, something suspiciously steak-shaped locked tight in its jaws, and Castiel skids to a stop right before the kitchen door. He practically careens into Dean.

He narrows his eyes. “Are you sweating?” he asks.

Dean pants at him and growls, “I told Sam a hundred god damn times –”

“I take full responsibility for the dog,” Castiel tells him. “Don’t _shoot it._ ”

Dean’s face scrunches up tighter, betrayal clear in the lines by his eyes. “There are _no dogs in the bunker,_ ” Dean tells him. “You _know_ that. They smell, they chew up everything, and we can’t afford it.”

“If we can afford an HBO subscription, we can afford the occasional bag of dog food.”

Dean sticks his gun back into the waistband of his pants and wipes some of the sweat off of his forehead. “Ok, wise guy. What about when we leave for a hunt, huh? What do we do with it?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “This dog lived on the street. It will be fine on its own.”

“Well it sure as hell isn’t getting in my car,” Dean grumbles. He rubs his eyes and makes a low noise in his throat, like he’s gearing up for another protest. “It stays the hell out of my room, too.”

“Alright,” Castiel promises, though he knows fully well that he can’t just tell a wild dog what and what not to do. The thing will likely do what it pleases. “Try not to be so skittish.”

“I’m not skittish,” Dean snaps. He huffs. “I’m going to bed.”

“Goodnight,” Castiel says, as tenderly as he can manage. He is still grateful for everything that he has been given here.

Dean waves a hand at him over his shoulder.

Castiel does not find sleep easily, never really has, and instead sits up half the night in his new bedroom reading and wandering the halls. He passes the dog a few times, curled against a radiator or pawing at a loose stone where, inevitably, some rodents have built their nests. Castiel scratches behind its ears hesitantly, and the dog’s tail wags even though it doesn’t even pause in its tasks to look back at him.  
Castiel smiles to himself and continues on his way. He rather likes having a dog.

Maybe he should think about giving it a name.

He thinks about that for a while, yawning into the glass of juice that he pours himself the kitchen. It’s nearly 5:00 – Dean will want to be woken up now to make breakfast before Sam’s run. He won’t say so, but his eyes light up when the three of them are able to sit down for meals together so Castiel knows that he treasures this time. He may gripe at Castiel for a while, but he’ll be glad he got up in the long run.

Castiel is learning the human routines of meal times and morning rituals. Maybe the dog can learn with him. They can study this new environment together.

Sure enough, it joins him again in the hallway, whining and snaking around his legs, making the fuzzy hair on its collar stand up on end, wild and crazed. He smiles fondly down at its wolfish grin.

“Dean,” he calls softly, knocking on the bedroom door as he has for the past several mornings. He pushes it open. “Wake up.”

Dean is already stirring under his sheets, chest shining with sweat and hair matted in several directions, as if he’d been tossing and turning. His brow is creased and he’s muttering to himself in sleep, clearly distressed.

Castiel steps into the threshold of the room, backlit against the hallway. His shadow spreads long and distorted across the floor and onto the bed. “Dean?”

Dean chokes and sits up, and his eyes go wide with panic. He scrambles backwards in bed until his head knocks what must be painfully against the stone wall, bare chest heaving. “No, not yet, ‘m not ready –”

Castiel frowns, concerned, and steps forward to help, but Dean’s eyes are fixed behind him – he doesn’t seem to even notice that Castiel’s inside. He turns to look.

The dog is still lurking in the doorway. Silhouetted against the hall light, snuffling and dirty, it looks positively demonic.

Hellish, even.

Castiel regretfully informs the dog that it can’t stay in the bunker after that.

“Told you,” Sam says. “Dean doesn’t like dogs.”

 

The bird is next, and it lasts considerably longer than the dog does. The bird is also an accident.

“I hate birds,” Sam politely informs him.

“Well I can’t do much about that, can I?” Castiel mutters, not looking up from his book. He is halfway through transcribing some Enochian that Charlie has dug up for him to work on – having a project helps him feel useful and distracts him from his body’s foreign aches – and he really doesn’t want to lose his progress.

The fact that a sparrow has accidentally found its way into the library is not, and never will be, his problem.

Sam throws up his hands. “I’ll get a broom or something. Chase it out.”

“Don’t,” Castiel snaps, finally looking up. “You’ll traumatize it. Or worse, injure it. Birds want to be outside - it’ll find its way out on its own.”

Sam huffs, but seems to reconsider the broom. For now.

Castiel settles back into his seat in the library, uncomfortably pressing his knuckles into the knobs of his spine. His back cracks as he stretches and the sound makes him flinch.

He isn’t good at telling the mortal hurts from the ordinary ones. He almost started hyperventilating in the kitchen the other day when he nicked his thumb on a knife. Dean had taken his hand and ran it under cold water, it was fine, but he was still shaken for the rest of the day. Every cramp, every needling itch, every scratch feels irreparable.

The bird chirps happily from somewhere up above Castiel’s head. It’s probably going to build a little nest on top of the bookshelves, where it won’t be disturbed even by Sam.

Castiel leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. _Every adult’s back hurts,_ he assures himself. _Dean’s back hurts him after driving in the Impala for too long. You’ve heard him complain about it ten thousand times at_ least _. You’re fine, Castiel._

He sighs and readjusts his position. Even when he isn’t scared of dying, he’s annoyed about it.

The bird sings happily on.

It doesn’t let up for several days; the sound echoes through the halls. Castiel can be taking a shower and listen to the bird tweeting to itself wherever it is, happy little notes that remind him of the sunshine. Sometimes the day begins with the sound of wings flapping, familiar to him and yet bittersweet both at once.

“That is getting way old way fast,” Dean mumbles over his own book one day. The bird is singing again. “Somebody better shut that thing up before I do it myself.”

“I offered,” Sam says, grinding his teeth. “Cas won’t let me.”

Dean shoots him an unimpressed glare. “Really?”

Castiel shrugs defensively. “Like I told Sam: it will find its way out of the bunker soon enough.”

He doesn’t want to admit that he kind of likes it, anyway.

Dean narrows his eyes, but Castiel can practically pinpoint the exact moment that he relents. “Not like we could catch it anyway,” he says.

Castiel nods, satisfied. Sam may complain that all the twittering makes it hard to concentrate, but Castiel rather enjoys the ambient noise. It reminds him of the angel chatter he no longer has access to. Not since his brothers have fallen and their voices been silenced from his own pitifully human head.

He privately refers to the bird as Chenaniah, as he was the leader of the singers. Every morning begins with gospel, almost – if a bit crude and simple.

And then, one day, there isn’t any sound at all. The front door is propped open as Dean hauls groceries in from the car, and Castiel can’t hear Chenaniah the sparrow singing anywhere in the bunker.

“Huh,” Dean says, when Castiel points it out. “Guess you were right, Cas. It really did get out on its own.”

Castiel looks wistfully towards the door. The weight of his own clipped wings seems heavier than usual. “Yes. I suppose it did.”

Dean gives him a long and considering look after that.

 

The rabbit is Dean’s idea.

“Come on,” he needles, pointing at it in the pet store window. “These are actually sort of cute. And they’re super low maintenance!”

Castiel stares through the window at the rabbit. It wiggles its nose. Castiel itches his own.

“No thank you,” he says, and walks away from the pet store. “Come on. We have witnesses to interview.”

Dean frowns and stares after him. Castiel walking away from him is a truly sad sight; head bowed, shoulders hunched. He looks skinny.

Dean hurries after him and tries to get him talking again. He can sense his mood dropping, Castiel becoming cold and withdrawn. This happens to him sometimes; Dean’s been noticing more and more.

“Do you think Cas is lonely?” Dean springs on Sam, after Castiel has begged off to bed.

Sam looks up with surprise. “Why do you ask?”

Dean shrugs. “I dunno. Just a feeling. Should we get him a pet?”

“A pet?” Sam asks. “Dean, Cas _just_ started getting used to humanity. He can barely take care of himself. You want to give him something else to take care of, too?”

He taps a finger and chews the inside of his lip. “Well, what about something for all of us?”

Sam frowns. “We tried dogs, birds – he did mention a guinea pig once.”

“Rodents are out,” Dean sighs. “I tried.”

“Hm.”

Dean blinks. “Well. I mean. There is one thing we haven’t tried yet.”

He gives Sam a considering look.

Sam’s eyebrows hike all the way up when he catches on. “You’re allergic!” he protests.

“So?”

Sam purses his lips, but Dean has known that gentle look of resignation for his entire life. He knows he’s won.

“Just for the record, I’d have liked the rabbit better,” Sam says, smiling.

“Me too. Didn’t stick.”

Sam laughs. “You are so whipped.”

Dean’s face colors bright red. “Shut your – _you’re_ – fuck you.”

 

The cat is… uh. The cat. Is.

It just is.

Castiel doesn’t understand what it’s doing here, exactly. He has approached it twice since he discovered it, curled up napping on the seat of his favorite chair in the library, and it has barely even twitched in response.

“Excuse me,” he says to it.

The cat’s ear swivels towards him. It does not open its eyes.

“You’re in my seat.”

The cat does not care. The cat kneads its claws into the wood and turns its ear back the other way.

Castiel stares at the back of its head, and sighs.

He resigns himself to his backup chair.

Dean finds them like that two hours later, carrying a plate in each of his hands. He grins, but he’s trying to hide it. What Dean fails to understand is that Castiel knows each and every one of Dean’s facial expressions so completely that he could never succeed in hiding _anything_ from him. But Castiel lets him try anyway.

“Hey,” he drawls. “See you met the new tenant. What do you think?”

Castiel looks up. The cat is still sleeping. He narrows his eyes at it. “Quiet,” he deems.

Dean hums and places a plate in front of Castiel. “Haven’t seen you eat today.”

Castiel catches a whiff of the hot food on his plate – quesadilla, stacked with stuff and still steaming – and leans forward, suddenly aware of how hungry he’s been. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Sure,” he says, setting the other plate down. “Mind if I join you two?”

Castiel is already tucking into his food. “Please,” he mumbles. He moans. “This is good.”

Dean smiles, but he’s less careful about hiding that one. “Good,” he replies, before tucking into his own just as thoroughly.

The cat flicks its tail back and forth, and neither intrudes upon nor scorns Dean and Castiel’s quiet conversation.

It just is.

 

The cat chews a sock that Castiel mistakenly left on the floor of the laundry room. He has to throw it out and the cat gives no apology.

It curls around Sam’s feet as he pours himself coffee in the morning. He smiles at it. “Morning, kitty,” he says.

Dean scoffs at him. “Yeah, right. You’d like the rabbit better,” Castiel thinks he mumbles. It’s hard for him to tell; Dean sounds a little congested this morning.

“Are you feeling alright?” Castiel asks him quietly. “You sound unwell.”

Dean shakes his head, almost too quickly. “Nope. Fine. Totally aces.”

Castiel frowns, but drops it. He looks down at the cat. It has darted across the floor and elects now to jump up onto the table, where it rubs against Dean’s face almost affectionately.

“Ok, I get it, chow time,” he laughs, shoving it away. “Off the furniture, bucko.”

“ _Bucko_?” Sam mocks. “Not a great name for a cat, dude.”

Dean frowns. “I wasn’t _naming it,_ but please, Sam. What do you consider a good name for a cat?”

Sam’s face reddens. “I don’t know! Fluffy, or something.”

“Oh, Fluffy! Original.”

“Shut up, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Cas,” Sam interjects. “What do _you_ think?”

Castiel looks over, alarmed. “Me?”

Dean turns to look at him. “Yeah, man. Why don’t you pick a name for the cat?”

Castiel looks at the cat. It blinks once at him, long and slow, and then turns away. It's an effective of a dismissal as any.

Castiel sighs and puts his chin in his hand. “I’ll have to think about it, I guess.”

Dean accepts this with a nod. “Take your time.”

Sam’s eyes linger on Castiel for a beat too long, but Castiel doesn’t feel like picking a fight. He feels like pancakes. He feels like curling up in bed and not waking up again for another six hours. He feels like screaming.

The cat flashes its asshole at him on its way out the door.

 

All right, Castiel is coming clean. He doesn’t like the cat.

They’ve always proven particularly surly with him. That cat in the nursing home was a straight up bully. It called him a dumbass. Completely unwarranted, by the way. Cats are just prickly in a way that dogs and birds and yes, even rabbits, are not.

This one appears to be no exception.

It is currently stationed right in front of Castiel’s bedroom door, licking its own genitals. It does not care that Castiel would like to move past it. It sits there and continues on.

“That’s considered rather impolite, you know,” he tells it. “Sam judges you for it, and he is usually very patient and accepting.”

The cat does not care what Sam thinks of it. The cat does what it pleases, and it may even do so just because it pisses people like Castiel off.

Castiel just turns around and walks back to the war room.

There’s poop on the floor.

Castiel rolls his eyes skyward in despair, but he picks it up without further complaint.

 

“Dude, you look like shit.”

Dean groans and massages his sinuses. “Live Claritin clear, my ass,” he grumbles. “I think it’s worth it, though.”

“Do you?” Sam asks, only half listening. He’s got a podcast queued up on his tablet that is infinitely more interesting than his brother’s weird and misguided attempts at wooing their ex-angel housemate. “Doesn’t seem like they’re getting along too well.”

“Who’s not getting along?” Castiel asks, shuffling into the kitchen. His hair is an absolute wreck. “Is there coffee?”

“Nobody,” Dean says, at the same time that Sam answers, “On the counter.”

Castiel beelines for it.

Dean smiles a little, despite the throbbing pain behind his eyes. “You actually get some sleep last night, Dracula?”

Castiel grunts. “I find the whole thing very disorienting,” he says. “And dreaming is unpleasant.”

Dean hums. “Been having the wrong kind of dreams then, sweetheart.”

Sam rolls his eyes and turns the volume on his tablet higher.

Castiel isn’t impressed. He pours his mug of coffee and doesn’t look up from it. “Where’s the cat?” he asks.

Dean shoots a Not Very Subtle smirk over in Sam’s direction. “Oh. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve already tripped over it once today on my way to the bathroom,” Castiel mutters, taking a gulp from his mug. He winces when he burns his tongue.

Dean gets up and takes the mug from Castiel’s hands. He sets it on the counter. “You gotta let it cool first,” he reminds him. “And I hope you apologized.”

Castiel grimaces. “Why should I? The cat was in _my_ way.”

Sam snickers.

A loud crash is heard from behind Castiel, and all three of them turn to look.

Castiel’s favorite mug, still full of hot coffee, has shattered all over the floor.

The culprit sits prettily on the edge of the counter, licking one incriminatingly stained paw and staring down at the wreckage.

Castiel clenches his jaw.

Dean laughs. “Well –”

Castiel marches straight out of the room.

Sam actually looks up from his podcast.

“Um. That didn’t –”

“Yeah, no. Uh,” Dean stutters. He looks over at the cat.

The cat unapologetically hops down from the counter, carefully sidestepping the destruction of its own creation.

 

Castiel has been slumped in bed for hours. Sam’s laptop fan whirs exhaustedly against his chest where he’s propped it up; Netflix asks if he’s _sure_ he wants to watch another episode.

“Yes, of course,” Castiel whispers to himself, clicking the button. “Fuck you.”

The swear feels satisfying in his mouth for reasons that he cannot explain. He chalks it up to another odd human thing he will probably never understand no matter how long his new life is, like dreaming and like old joints.

“Hey, Cas?”

Castiel doesn’t look up from the screen. “Yes, Dean,” he calls, bored.

Dean cracks open his door. The light hurts his eyes. “You, uh, planning on joining us today out here in the land of the living?”

“No,” he says.

Dean hesitates, but says nothing.

“What, Dean?” Castiel snaps.

“Geez, nothing, ok. See you.”

He leaves the door open a crack when he walks away. Castiel would get up and shut it himself, but he doesn’t much feel like getting up today.

It’s ridiculous, but staring at the door makes him tear up. His show is playing two inches from his face and he can’t even focus on it because he’s too busy crying at a partially-ajar bedroom door. Pine, he thinks.

He doesn’t understand these moods, and they frustrate him. He doesn’t _like_ crying over these little things. He doesn’t _like_ feeling helpless and out of control. He just _does._ Being human is _hard_ and he isn’t coping well. He isn’t adjusting fast and easy to this new life that Dean and Sam have assumed him into.

And now, it seems, the cat has come to mock him for it.

“Oh, what now,” he all but yells at it, flicking its tail blithely in his doorway. “What could you _possibly_ want from me today?” he asks.

The cat, of course, says nothing. It wanders into Castiel’s bedroom like it’s been here a hundred times before and disappears beyond the foot of his bed. Castiel feels the covers dip a moment later and peers over the top of the laptop screen, eyes still stinging.

The cat circles once or twice and then carefully lays itself down right beside Castiel’s feet. His toes are level with its wiggling ears. It blinks once, twice, very long and slow at him, before closing its eyes altogether and settling in.

Against his foot, he can feel the cat purring.

Castiel takes a deep breath, and turns back to his show.

The cat stays the entire night.

 

Castiel wakes with dry eyes and a sore throat, and the cat rolls onto its back when it senses Castiel waking. Disoriented as usual, Castiel accidentally kicks the poor thing in its ribs. It doesn’t seem to mind, though. Just jerks its head and then relaxes again, stretching out into the sheets.

Castiel clears his throat. “Good morning,” he croaks.

The cat yawns.

It follows him out of the room when he finally finds the fortification to stand, trotting excitedly to the kitchen where it knows food will be waiting. Castiel follows it sleepily, and thankfully does not run into any concerned humans on his journey.

He takes a glass of water for himself and guzzles it down. He fills the glass again and sets it on the counter, and looks down at the cat at his feet.

“If I leave this here,” he rumbles gravely, “will you leave it alone?”

The cat doesn’t answer, but it stays on the floor when Castiel sets its food out.

He picks up his glass of water and watches it eat.

Pieces of kibble fly out of its mouth as it crunches; the cat ends up making quite a mess. Occasionally it licks its paw or nose to clean itself of crumbs. It eats quickly and gracelessly, staring into its food bowl as if nothing else in the world could be more important.

Castiel nearly drops his glass. “Oh,” he says aloud. The cat’s ear swivels towards him, acknowledging. “You actually remind me of someone.”

Finished with its breakfast, the cat licks its whiskers and shakes its head. “You’re rude, you eat too much, and you can be very annoying, but you can also be very sweet,” Castiel explains. “It’s alright. The real Dean and I did not get along well initially either.”

The cat continues to groom itself.

“I forgive you for the mug, by the way,” Castiel feels compelled to say.

He approaches the cat and its food bowl and crouches down low, knees creaking as he goes. He grunts and touches them agitatedly. Then, he extends his hand out, hovering in the air just a little ways in front of him.

The cat pauses in its work, and cranes its neck to fit the curve of its head into Castiel’s palm.

Castiel can feel himself grinning for the first time in days.

“Walther,” he dubs the cat. “Like the rifle,” he adds wryly.

The cat looks at him, and it winks.

 

Walther is curled up in Castiel’s lap, in their favorite chair, sitting quietly as they work. Occasionally, Castiel will dip his head to say something. Sam and Dean watch stealthily from the doorway.

“Told you it’s worth it,” Dean sniffles.

Sam pats him on the shoulder. “Go take a Zyrtec, jerk.”

“…Bitch.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


End file.
